


And she is herself a cave full of echoes

by aexhalted



Series: carmilla reincarnation au [2]
Category: Carmilla - All Media Types
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Angst, F/F, Implied/Referenced Suicide, It's a Reincarnation AU, Major Character Undeath, but i appreciate what i've done, i won't be coming back to this, i'm counting this as unfinished because it's incomplete but polished to posting, it's one phrase about midway through, so here y'all go
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-06
Updated: 2018-06-06
Packaged: 2019-05-19 01:34:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14864144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aexhalted/pseuds/aexhalted
Summary: Reincarnation AUOr the one where Carmilla is an immortal vampire and Laura keeps living again and again and again and again.(polished to posting, but incomplete.)





	And she is herself a cave full of echoes

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Volutus](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1160615) by [Care](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Care/pseuds/Care). 



> Hey creampuffs! I've had this fic sitting open since before Season 3 was announced, but by now I think I'm calling it a day with where I've got to. I'm not active in the fandom, and I've run out of steam a little. I've quickly polished it up to posting standard (ish), but it was meant to be several thousand longer. I had the research done and everything! (yes, i mapped out a potential timeline. i love history & i love carmilla.) I'm posting this mainly because I respect who I was when I wrote the bulk of this, and it was always written for publication here. So, here we go. I'll say I won't come back to it, as I want to move on to other things. But for a good while, I enjoyed writing this. I hope you enjoy it too.
> 
> Title from Lady of the House of Love, by Angela Carter
> 
> If you feel so inspired as to pick up the rest of the story, please do contact me! I'd love to see it finished off proper!

1698, Styria

Mircalla wiggled through the dense crown of Styrian nobility. The dress was tight around her torso and cut low at the chest; a birthday present from her overly anxious mother. The loose sleeves were tiresome, continually snagging on various buttons and glasses of wizened aristocrats who leered. These old men being the chief reason Mircalla was fighting her way towards the balcony. She weaved and ducked velvet clad bodies, all tuning in time with the rich sound of her favourite waltz.

She burst onto the balcony, and the chill hit her like a brick wall. The small discomfort of cold ran down her back and Mircalla embraced it. After the suffocating atmosphere of the minor aristocracy pressed together, the large balcony felt like the familiar freedom of childhood. The night was dark; only the very brightest stars and a thin strip of moon in the sky. On nights like this, she would throw open her window and let her skin chill.

"You look like you could use some company here." 

The voice was soft and warm, and full of good intentions. Mircalla spun sharply to see a young woman in a simple blue gown, the cold already in her skin. Politics and politeness be damned, the last thing Mircalla wanted was to talk weather with another stranger. Albeit a pretty stranger with big wide eyes and an easy smile. It had been so long since she had seen another girl her age, perhaps this was who she was meant to meet tonight. 

She could play nice for a while with her.

"Company is welcome." Her guest moved closer, and leaned against the stone wall of the balcony. “If you’ve ended up here, I’m sure you must be well acquainted with my name”, a bitter taste laced her words. Perhaps politeness was beyond her reach after all.

"Presumably a name of someone very pretty, who looked a little lost." The girl turned and smiled, bright and genuine. Her hair was long and the colour of pages in first edition books, arranged in small curls fixed at the back with a silver bar. A small wisp was loose around her forehead, and Mircalla had the overwhelming urge to brush it back. 

"How could I be lost in my own home, do you suppose?" Her eyebrow arched up, quickly joined by the other as her guest stumbled backwards, a strong blush across her cheeks.

"Please forgive my boldness, countess, it was quite thoughtless." The girl fumbled her words, attempting a clumsy curtsy. Her hands scrabbled her skirt and her eyes screwed up, Mircalla thought her the best thing she had seen that night. 

Warmth shot through Mircalla's chest.

She began to speak, her lips poised on a witty forgiveness, when the air was sliced by a deafening, splitting scream

Mircalla ran towards it.

Later, she'll remember how her guest was dragged over the balcony by her father, calling for his Laura to get to safety. Mircalla has time to be grateful later.

A young woman lay sprawled on her back, bleeding dark crimson over the polished hard wood. What was left of her neck kept her head near her pale body. Mircalla ran towards the danger.

Later she'll remember her mother screaming for her own safety. Her voice growing faint as she ran for the door. Later, Mircalla will know she never made it outside.

She slid to her knees beside the body, blood seeping up into the fabric of her dress. A strangled horror rose up in her throat. Her eyes were unable to focus, her nose filled with the fresh stench of death and freshly picked flowers in the vases around the ballroom. 

Mircalla never felt the darkness stir behind her and bite deep into her flesh. 

\----

2016, Austria

“Why did you let yourself get photographed after they stopped using silver in cameras? Shouldn’t you have stayed hidden?”

Mircalla ghosts her hand over the white scar behind Laura’s ear. “I liked knowing I existed in that moment.”

“But there’s only a small handful of pictures? Granted you looked lovely, but doesn’t that contradict your own point” Laura shuffled over sideways to look at Mircalla’s face.

She turned her face away. “I only wanted to remember it when I was with you.”

\------

BC

She woke to the sound of people burning. 

Charred white cloth lay scattered through the streets, with lost sandals and smashed pottery and steaming rubble besides.

She looked up from the chaos in front and saw the sky alight. The far shore was a silky swirl of purple and pink, clouds soft like flower petals melted into the deeper shades of lips and wine. The volcano to her right was choking the sky and the earth with acrid black.

The crumbling doorway barely held her weight as she leant and watched the crowd run in their panic. The narrow cobblestones meant the survival of the fittest, strongest, selfish. There was a crunch of bones beneath hundreds of feet, carrying their still-beating bodies away from the clouds.

She ran towards the volcano. She ran towards the house that Laura TF lived in.

Ash burned her pale, worn feet, blistering her heels to painful pink. The air had turned to smoke; thick, hot, black powder that singed her throat. She coughed and tasted bottom of her lungs. Her eyes spilled out salt water, clean air had never been such a luxury to her. The stones of the street burned as she scrambled forward, trampling corpses in her haste. White clouds wrapped themselves around the dead, holding the pain on their faces. She forced herself to look, to check, to find the girl she needed. 

Laura was curled up in a crumbled, coated, doorway; head tucked into her knees and burnt against the brick. Her skin was dry and cracked underneath the coat of deadly white ash. It was tough like stone, and bit back against her fingers as she tried to break the casing around Laura. She felt small specks of fire burn her legs and sides, and she felt her skin burn beneath the same white clouds. She kept twisting and scraping at the ashen cast of Laura until she could not feel tears on her cheeks, only burning air.

\------

Paris 1799

The square was packed with red and blue and joyful laughter. Scrawny children ran circles among their mother’s skirts, their laughter ringing louder than the church bells. Women were dressed in the blue of their county and the red of their husband’s bloody deaths. The cathedral sang, the chimes cutting quick in the rising chatter of the crowd. The sun was new and bright with promises.

The revolution had won.

Carmilla weaved through the bustling crowds to the centre of the square, content to stand and watch the constant streams of people come and go. Her eyes scanned the crowd, continually searching for an infuriatingly common shade of blond. She hadn’t spent enough time with the girl to memorise the exact shine of her hair, the snubness of her nose, the darkness of her lashes.

Just one more look and she would know for sure.  
How could she ever have forgotten Laura?

\---  
Unknown, Unknown

The sea tossed and churned and spat the small wooden fishing boat towards the coastline.  
She saw honey blond hair and calloused hands grab at rope, and the bright, hot, hope in her chest was doused with chilling salt water when she opened her mouth to scream.

\---

Bath 1815

The streets of Bath were packed with the ruffles and feathers and frills of the upper class of England, and TF carm sensed the start of an unfortunately unflattering trend. Her pink gown fluttered over the cobblestones as she made her way towards the pump room; the very heart of all social circles. She had waited for months, watching the nobility of West England gather in this, admittedly beautiful, little city, and Mircalla hoped today would be the day it all payed off.

Perhaps this time she would do it right.

She scrawled her name into the guest book by the pillared entrance, scanning for the familiar blond hair, long lashes, for the charming smile she appeared to be chasing across the years.  
Perhaps today, they could get it right.

Mircalla found a quiet corner seat, gracefully arranging her long skirts and grasping a small bouquet of violets in her twitching fingers. Matska had promised Laura would be here today, informed by supposedly reliable walking meals. It was slightly too late to verify their answers now. 

The Pump room was packed tight, barely any space for the anxious chaperones of the eligible young ladies to flutter beside. That was no matter, Laura’s father took her everywhere. The short, steeled man was near as familiar a sight to Mircalla as his daughter.

The violets crumpled in her hands as the cries of luncheon filled the room, the masses slowly filtering out into the streets. Mircalla sat bolt straight, eyes bright and anxious, glaring back at any bachelors who ventured a grin.

As the sun drew nearer to the cobbled streets of Bath, Mircalla barely noticed the violets tumble to the floor as she walked out the room alone. 

\---  
Versailles, Mid -1700s

“Dance with your mother, darling, don’t you owe me this at least?”, her Maman set down her champagne flute on the ornate silver platter of a nearby butler as the orchestra struck a waltz. 

“Of course, Maman.” Mircalla bit back her childish comment about how much she so loved the waltz, as she held her mother’s hand through the crowd of aristocrats to the centre of the floor.

The cold tint of her mother’s skin was tangible, still, through the gloves they wore. Mircalla opened her mouth to ask if that was a vampiric trait, before snapping her jaw shut on the words. Maman will instigate the conversation, Matska had drilled into her, or you will suffer her displeasure. Now shall you learn to behave.

“Mircalla,” her mother asked, voice thick as honey, “how are you faring with your life after life?”

“Before,” Mircalla, 

 

\---  
Austria 1872

“Come along, quickly - there’s something you must see tonight!” The anticipation in Carmilla’s voice was palpable, as she shook El awake by her shoulder. “hurry , sweet, before it it realised we are gone.”  
“Carmilla, why must you wake me so often in the witching hours?” El brushed out her nightgown and stuffed her feet into shoes. “Is daylight such a task for you to cope with?” a smile creeped into her lips as Carmilla took her arm in arm, and grew as they tumbled and tripped down the corridor.

“Love, where are we going tonight?” El asked, eyes bright in the darkened hallway. “You know how impatient I am for surprises”

Carmilla marched the girl by the arm up and and up and finally out onto the smallest balcony at the very top tower.

"The moon, my love. I wanted to show you how magnificent it looked. And tell you how not even nature's most beautiful could compare to you." she added, with a blush.

She felt Elle twine her fingers through hers and squeeze tight.

\---  
1989, Berlin

Carmilla was asleep when the wall fell.

She woke to the sound of shattering brick, the screaming frenzy of the crowd.

She shut her eyes, and pretended she couldn’t hear the sound of fingernails on the dry chalky stone. 

She buried her head further into the pillow.

\---  
Dover, 1916

The worst thing about eternal life, Mircalla decided, was not dying. Her body hit the muddy sand with a soft thump, and she knew she’d be finding sand between her toes for weeks. 

Of all the asinine things she’s done, this must be in the top few attempts. 

She scrabbled at the long black curls suspended behind her, fished out the small pocket knife from her undergarments, and cut off her hair before it could wrap itself around her neck.

As the last of the curls floated to the sea floor, Mircalla’s eyes had better adjusted to the deep water around her. She toed off her shoes, shed her skirt, and started walking towards the darkness.

\----

1911, London

The air was crisp with winter and animosity outside the London Houses of Parliament. Women had taken to the streets with homemade signs, stolen handcuffs, and wills stronger than the iron railings they were chaining themselves to as the city watched in revulsion. 

When Carmilla heard Laura was marching here, she came running. She always would.

The sound of breaking glass turned her head, turning to see the street behind her stuffed full of citizens marching towards the protest. 

Carmilla saw the glint of silver curled in a fist, and fled.

She hadn't yet gotten past Trafalgar when she felt the pull in her chest sputter out, the shock of it sending her scraping over the cobblestones. 

Hands stinging, she stood up, the guilt of being so close cutting finer than the pavement.

Carmilla walked forwards.

\---  
A Library.

Once, Laura remembered her. 

“You’re the girl from my dreams.” She cried, grasping at Mircalla’s arms, pushing her back against the nearest bookcase. “It’s you. I found you again.”

Again. 

Again.

The word seemed to sink low in the ground and lift the air up above their heads, as if to sever them from the world.

“You’ve been looking for me too?” Mircalla’s voice was something small and fragile, a low cadence that settled around the quite bookshelves. 

Laura’s mouth broke into a smile, pushing up her rosy cheeks. 

\----  
Bakery, France, 1960s.

The small silver bell chimed as Mircalla pushed through the door of the bakery, the comforting warmth of homely decadence wrapped around her skinny frame. She looked through the clear curved glass case, considering each treat in equal measure. None seemed alike, but all smelt delicious. Cinnamon and ginger tickled her nose, her eyes taken in by the sticky white icing, the heaps of chocolate sprinkles, soft velvet buttercream freshly piped on perfectly cute cupcakes.

“See something you like?”

Mircalla ripped her gaze away from the bakes to see a pretty baker with a smug little smile across her round cheeks. Her dishwater blond hair was tucked under a white net save for a few stray locks behind her pink ears, a blush visible under a fine dusting of flour. 

This might be the best one yet, Mircalla slowly grins, the warmth of understanding settling deep inside her chest. 

With this, they could surely take their time. 

“These petit four look delectable, but I’m quite torn over the cupcakes” with a glint in her eyes, Mircalla artfully flung herself on the wooden counter next to the baker. “Any recommendations?” 

“The cream puffs are my speciality,”

Mircalla thought her heart would burst.

 

\---  
Eastern Europe, 1800s.

A servant girl in a grey smock sat in the wire loveseat in the chateau’s gardens. Her pale hands shook as she adjusted her cap, hooking black curls behind her ears. The scent of roses was assaulting, the sheer power of the huge blooming buds making her eyes water and nose twitch uncontrollably. She twisted her hands in her lap, twiddling a small daisy back and forth over the pad of her thumb, whilst keeping careful watch on the lights up at the castle. All she needed was to see the silhouette of her, up on the right side of the castle, below the last tower. That small, microscopic proof that this wasn’t all for nothing at all.  
It must have been 3 hours by now, and still no one had appeared in the window. The servant’s feet were frozen, and the chill of the night seeped from the dirt into the bones of her legs, creeping up and over her knees. The insects had been playing their rag-tag band of chirping since before the daisy was crushed in her restless hands. She was desperate to go back, to return to her scratchy bed in the stables and continue the guise of servitude until tomorrow night, where she would whisk herself away to the gardens and see her girl brush her hair in the window. To perpetuate the cycle of longing another day. But she couldn’t shake herself off the bench. She needed to see her girl in the window. She had to see her dance around her room with imaginary partners, to music the watcher couldn’t hear. To know that she made it safe to sleep once again.  
The servant slumped back into the bench and cast her fruitless gaze on the so-familiar gardens, peppered with pear trees and violets and hoards of peonies and apple-blossom. The pleasure of wandering through the flowers at night was her favourite part of this lifecycle. Both of them had always loved pretty things.

A light flicked on in her peripheral. She snapped her head back towards the schloss. Her neck twinged in the cold, but her eyes were sated, eagerly waiting for the figure to show in the window.

The girl wasn’t alone.

“She must be giggling,” thought the servant, “spinning the stranger around the room like that.” as she watched the figures blur in a shoddy waltz. 

 

\---  
Silas 2015

“Remember my dear, I have trusted in my red right hand. Do not make me regret you again. ” The Dean, in her latest skinsuit, made for an imposing figure. Her authority lay deep in the borrowed voice, velvet and wine coloured. 

Carmilla did not feel darkness snake it’s familiar trail down her spine.

Turning on her heel, she faced the cookie-cut freshman dorm, and plodded down the corridor to the final room on the right. 

Slouching past two overly anxious gingers, her pale hand yanked the door open. She made a beeline for the unoccupied bed and flung herself into the pillows. Her ‘roommates’ rarely worth the effort of introduction. Attachment has always been an overrated concept.

But today, with all the familiarity of a cold balcony and her beloved fairy tale books, Carmilla Karnstein opens her eyes to see Laura Hollis.


End file.
